I AM SHERLOCKED
by CheesyJumpersandJam
Summary: When Sherlock takes the fall and survives, Mycroft and John are left to fill in the gaps and discover the truth. Sherlock is changed-and not for the better. Time is running out when Mycroft reveals the necessity to bring the consulting detective back from the dead when another threat makes its home in London. (Post-Reichenbach Fall, taking a much darker turn on what happened...)
1. Chapter 1

I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter One:

This story begins with grief, desperation, and lastly, regret.

"Only permitted persons past this point, sir."

I stammered while digging around in my coat pocket for the card I had been given. My hands couldn't identify the card from whatever else I was carrying; possibly a handkerchief, probably my wallet, the hard and cold surface of my lighter, and a carton of cigarettes. Finally, I managed to brush my fingers against the glossy side of the security card and take it out of my collection of self-identity. Lately, I'd been associating myself more with my cigarettes than my wallet.

I flashed the flimsy thing at the man. The dim lighting of the fluorescent bulbs shone off the back of the card. It was at this point I noticed my hand was shaking. I willed my hold to still, but it was no use. He looked at it, merely a glance, and let me pass through. The building I had just been allowed into was notorious for its security and secrecy. It was a government building. A psych ward, really.

I fumbled afterwards, gathering my briefcase and trying to return the card to my pocket with admitted difficulty. I tried a nervous smile, even an awkward chuckle at my incompetence, but no one seemed amused. No one except my sorry self.

I was escorted further into the obscure building. It didn't have much to show for its reputation, but I suppose I wasn't the first to walk down that hallway-escorted, I mean. This was probably a common occurrence, with visiting family and friends. Even doctors. Surely, there was a reason even they had nothing to tell of these dark, and even dank, corridors of cement and closed off places.

Everything was exaggerated in this frightening institute. I heard no one but myself and the two men, following and leading, beside me. The sounds of our shoes echoed off the empty halls like we were the first signs of life in a long time.

I worried about the others here. I knew there were others. There had to be others. How was it to live in this place? What was it like to be confined to these plain and listening walls. Even to speak must sound like a gunshot in the world I had flashed a card in order to get in to.

I did not hear a word as we walked and walked. Further and further I was led into the heart of the abyss. My dread heightened the louder our footsteps became. I got the sense I was entering into a hollow place. The belly of a hungry beast. Only, it wasn't exactly the location that frightened me most.

"Right in here, sir."

Here meant an isolated room. There was no furniture, except for a metal chair bolted to the floor. Another chair was against the far opposite wall. Mirrors covered the entire surface of the four walls, and when I stepped into the room, I could see many of me standing there staring back, each with the look of trepidation I felt in my stomach. I swallowed with more effort than I'd liked to admit, and placed my briefcase down on the floor beside the twin, unbolted chair.

"Wait right here and don't move. I will warn you, if you move towards him, I cannot promise what will happen."

I looked up at the man, the moment that had haunted my thoughts nearly come opening my eyes wide. I felt my hands begin to tremble and I folded them over in front of me. My mouth went horribly dry and I couldn't recall a time I had felt more fearful for what came next. Not even in the war.

"Do you understand?"

I opened my mouth, lips parting and forming words that weren't even spoken. I closed my eyes, working my jaw and chewing the inside of my cheek like a madman. I reorganized my thoughts and sent a small force of air through my larynx to clear my throat of the horror that blocked it. "I understand," I opened my eyes.

I caught my own expression in the mirror as he turned to leave. My face was blanched completely and my pupils were pinheads in a sea of gray. Everything about my face was white; plain as day. Everything. My inability to take proper care of my facial hair with the gray shadow smothering my jaw; my inability to sleep with large bags under my eyes, each a blaring, fleshy red; my inability to calm myself with upturned brows even when I felt no way to correct them; my shaking hands were a glaringly obvious sign of my affliction; my unkempt clothes, wrinkled and messily done; my loss of appetite and the way the shadows cut into my cheek, more sharply than ever.

There was more, too. Far, much more. And all of it, every single thing, would be seen, examined, and known by _him _as soon as he stepped in through that door.

I thought about bolting. This door was not yet locked. I heard no confirmation of this. I could pack everything up and leave right now. It had been a valiant effort on my part, but this was far enough. I could just take the easy way out. There was honor in that still. Anyone who knew the things I did would agree with me on that. I wasn't here for me.

I was called here. It had not been on my own accord I came to this forsaken labyrinth of impending anxiety and apprehension. All this had been for someone else's request. But not just anyone's.

Mycroft's.

"He doesn't respond, and when he does, it's nothing coherent or intelligent at all. Whatever happened that day has left him completely changed. I'll never rightly admit he was stable before, but he certainly isn't now."

The date he was referring to was sometime in late fall. I can still remember the cold air turning my nose red and making my ears throb. My mind had been a whirlwind of confusion and nothing had made sense that day. That's what I remember most of all. None of it made sense. I had been everywhere and back again.

If only I had stayed.

I remember pulling up into the street, heart pounding all the way. I opened the door of the cab and put the phone to my ear. I remember thinking at that point that I could get inside the hospital and then it would all be done with. He'd be there, just as I had left him.

"Hello?"

"John…"

"Hey, Sherlock! You okay?" I had started running, hopes high. It's alright. Everything's going to be alright.

"Turn around, and walk back they way you came-"

"I'm coming in!"

"Just…! Just… do as I ask."

At the tone in his voice, I stopped. "_Please_." I was an idiot. I would do anything for him, and he had known it.

"Where?" I had asked. Where.

"There. Stop there."

"Sherlock.."

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

With my back turned to him, I finally turned to look up and see his figure standing there. I could barely see his face. "Oh god…"

"I...I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology…" He opened his mouth to speak again and I could already feel the dread mounting. "It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me… I...invented Moriarty.

The words hurt more than a bullet to the shoulder.

"Why are you saying this?"

He looked down at me. His voice sounded like he was in tears.

"I'm a fake."

"Sherlock…"

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly… in fact tell anyone who will listen to you, that I created Moriarty for my own purposes…"

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up! The first time we met. The _first _time _we_ met, you knew all about my sister, huh?"

"Nobody could be that clever-"

"You could!" and he laughed. A pained laugh that still haunted me.

"I researched you. Before we met, I discovered everything I could to impress you. Just a trick. It's just a magic trick."

"No! Holmes, Stop it now!"

"No! Stay exactly where you are! Don't move!" His voice had turned hostile. Demanding.

"All right," I put my hands in the air, a surrender. Why did I listen?

"Keep your eyes fixed on me! Please, will you do this for me?" He had his hand out as if he were holding me back himself. Is that possible?

"Do what?"

"This phone call...it's uh…" _shut up, Sherlock… Shut up… _"It's my note." Silence. "It's what people do, don't they?" More silence. "Leave a note…"

I knew the answer, but all I could do was just shake my head. "Leave a note when?" I wanted to hear him say it. I wanted to make absolutely certain. I wanted to hear Sherlock, the great consulting detective, say it.

"Good-bye, John."

"No, don't."

Sherlock threw the phone aside. He took his eyes off me and looked to the sky. He extended his hands out.

"SHERLOCK!"

"Well, what a surprise."

My eyes opened wide. I was sitting in the chair, my figure hunched over with my face buried in my hands. I could only see my shoes through the gaps of my fingers. I hadn't heard him come in. My thoughts about running had all but disappeared when I had begun to recall that fated day.

Only the recognizable baritone could bring me back from that.

I looked up and saw him sitting across from me. He was chained to the chair, both wrists and ankles strapped down tightly. His same mop of dark brown hair sat tousled and wild. His skin was sickly pale and his eyes were red and blood shot. His cheeks had sharpened from the stress he must have undergone, but it was him.

Sherlock.

The newest patient of the mental institute.

Mycroft's words came back to me.

"I'll never rightly admit he was stable before, but he certainly isn't now. John, you're the only one alive he may remember. The only one he might respond to." He had leaned closer to me at that moment, his eyes in genuine concern. "You were the last one to see Sherlock Holmes alive."

I looked in the familiar blue, but the bloody veins streaking across made it hard to remember exactly what they had looked like.

"I have a visitor," the baritone rumbled again.

I was searching for him. Underneath the grime and abused-look, there must be something hiding. Something I can recognize with who he was. But the grin he gave me was nothing short of disturbing; nothing less than what Moriarty what have done. I can see his dark eyes moving in the recesses of the blue, slashed with red. I can only see the madman as whomever sits across from me tilts his head like a viper in waiting.

I've been staring at him this entire time, but I can't find the words to say. I can feel him looking over every inch of me and isolating everything about me and storing him in that head of his.

My eyes lift from his eyes to the bandage wrapped around his forehead and I resist the urge to let tears slip past. My eyes have begun to water. Whether it's because I haven't been blinking or I suddenly feel a surge of painful memories flying back to me, I don't know. All I know is there is a man that looks like Sherlock smiling wickedly at me from across the room. There are reflections of him everywhere, but they all reflect something devious.

"Do you…" my voice was barely audible, and my throat was scratchy. "Do you remember me?" I crossed my arms in front of my chest, feeling more threatened than I had ever felt before. I breathed a small dose of courage through my nose, willing my senses to calm, feeling my heart begin to lapse into another episode of overloading emotions.

_Calm down. Calm down… _

"You? Remember you?"

A part of me hopes he doesn't. That would end any future meetings with this man. Yet, I'm holding my breath. I'm on the edge of my seat, my hands gripping tightly, wrapping myself in a constricting hold but it wasn't comforting enough. I'm doing everything I can not to run to him and shake his shoulders.

_It's me. It's John. You're old flat-mate? We used to solve crimes together. We used to laugh together. Do you remember? Laughing? _

"No."

My defense melted. My jaw was flexing and unflexing, holding back my tongue and tears. I closed my eyes, unable to look at this man any longer. I had begun to reach down to gather my briefcase when I stopped cold.

"But I remember a man by the name of John Hamish Watson."

My name. He remembers my name…

"You know me then. That's my name. You just said my name," words were flying out of my mouth faster than I could help it.

Sherlock remembers me! He remembers-

"No. I said I remember a man by the name of John Hamish Watson. You're not him. You're a shell of him. A shattered, broken piece of what once was Dr. Watson. You're nothing like he was. But that's a good thing, isn't it? John Watson was stupidity at its finest. He'd do everything I said without question. He wasn't a person, he was a dog-hungry to please its master. He'd do anything. If I had asked him to jump off that roof with me, I'm sure he would have. If I had asked him to come up and save me, oh, there's no question.

"I still remember his face when I told him my little ploy about being a fake-which is all true, of course. A loyal dog, betrayed by his own master. Yet, he still listened. I told him stay, and my, what a good boy he was. He _stayed_." Someone, using Sherlock's voice, laughed. A maniacal, diabolical, chilling laugh. It was too far gone to be considered healthy, but too genuine to be considered a lie.

I balled my fists, tears beginning to tear down my face and defense, torrents at a time. I had begun to take deep breaths, my hands pushing down against my sides. I was using every bit of strength I had not to get up from my chair and close the distance between that man and my fists.

"Shut up, Sherlock. Shut up!"

The man leaned forwards, his bonds straining audibly against the force. "You still call for your master, don't you? I wonder. If I told you to stop crying, would you be able to? I'm sure you'd make every effort to. But see now, you're not John Watson. You're just his corpse, wandering listlessly without someone to give you direction. Is that why you've come crawling back? Only you could be so pathetic."

"I said shut up!" The chair slammed back against the wall, the mirror shattering where the chair had connected with it. The entire wall hadn't been compromised, but enough of it was damaged and broken that anyone who looked at it could see it wasn't just any regular mirror.

"Ah, so the dog does bark. But does it bite?" the man grinned. His eyes were latched on to mine like a deranged predator. "Seems we're being watched, pup. I hope the fact this will be on record won't be too embarrassing for you."

I grabbed the briefcase, thousands of emotions swelling in my head, my heart pounding in my ears. Yet, all I could hear was his hysterical laugh as I grabbed for the door, yanking and pulling with all my might but to no avail. They had locked it when Sherlock was brought in, and now I was at his total mercy.

"Open the goddamn door!" I screamed.

"I look forward to our next visit, Watson."

At the mention of my name, I risked a sideways glance in the maniac's direction, but instantly regretted it when we locked eyes and I lingered for a moment too long.

"Don't worry, you'll be back."

The door opened and I shoved my way into the hallway, saying nothing, just walking as fast as I could.

I was on the verge of more tears, but anger had found its way into my heart and dominated my actions. Anger and fear. Anger because he was right.

And fear, because he was so _goddamn _right.

As I stormed down the halls, brief-case in hand and the other shaking with tremors, I winced with each step. I found it difficult to walk. A shooting pain traveled its way up my entire body with each step. I staggered, limping towards the exit. I could nearly reach there. I was just past the security desk. The man said something to me, but I couldn't hear. The pain and the shock were coursing through me like the adrenaline, and I had to blink out the black that began to invade my vision, threatening me with the inevitability I was going to black out.

I took another step, and I felt my body crash to the ground. I heard something ringing in my ear, and I was suddenly back at that day. I was struggling to get up and people were crowding around me. I was trying to push them away, the ringing blanketing my thoughts and pain everywhere.

"No, he's my friend…"

"Stay down, it's all right-"

"No! He's my friend!"

"Somebody call the ambulance!"

"_Sherlock…"_

And I was enveloped in darkness.

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><p><strong>AUTHOR'S NOTE: I realize some of this, if not all, might be slightly Out of Character. I apologize in advance. Because there is no basis to really base this on, I can't predict what the characters might have done if in this situation. I appreciate you reading this and hope you enjoy! :] <strong>


	2. Chapter 2

I AM SHERLOCKED

Chapter Two:

I was having a nightmare; people were pushing me, holding me to the ground and I was unable to get up. I kept wailing, protesting madly, but the words all came out slurred and messy. I couldn't understand a thing I said, but I knew exactly what I wanted to say. It was beyond frustrating, forming your lips to make the perfect sound, all your concentration poured into a simple task that you've been doing since birth, but all that resulted was gibberish.

"Sherlock!" I was struggling to shout, my mouth caught on the first syllable and my lips unable to move an inch. "No, you don't understand!" I meant to cry out, my hands waving frantically while the jumbled words struggled to make sense. "He's my friend! You don't understand!"

I felt as if a hand were clapped over my mouth, muffling my thoughts and handicapping my ability to perform the act of speech. Yet, I knew no hand existed. None of it existed.

That day had long since passed. No one was holding me down and Sherlock wasn't on the sidewalk. He wasn't… he wasn't bleeding to death with his head split open.

I get up on my knees, and out of pure desperation, I crawl my way to my fallen friend. My knees slam into the jutting uneven cobblestones and I felt new wounds beginning to settle in my bones, but I kept moving.

My mind was whirling a million miles per second, but I fight my way towards him. I weave through countless legs and things blocking my way; they never seem to end. _Why don't they end? _Until at last, I've risen to my feet, staggering the rest of the way, using my weight to push through everything that blocked my path as I kept uttering his name over and over again.

Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

"_Oh god, Sherlock…" _

I saw the blood first. Then the brain matter. His body had fallen, crumpled behind a dumpster. His body was twisted in such an unnatural display, his eyes closed shut.

Blood. More blood. It kept pouring out of his head. _Oh god, Sherlock… _I saw someone coming towards me and I flinched at their hold on me.

"I'm a doctor! I'm a doctor! He's my friend!" I cried again, shaking my shoulders out of their hold and huddling close to the disfigured body that was once my best friend.

I was shocked. So immensely shocked. But my training took a hold of me and I immediately grabbed for his wrist, checking his pulse. He was still. He was so still. So cold.

The sirens of the ambulance were drowned by the murmurs of the crowd, but even that faded. I suddenly couldn't hear anything at all except more ringing. More horrid, terrible ringing. My heart slowed to pained and struggled beats, and I felt every single one bang against my rib cage. I swore it left a bruise that never healed.

I felt it even now.

I heard more monotonous tones. Each carved its way into my mind and, like nails against a chalkboard, jolted me awake. The single tone began to break apart into separate blips. Then, at last, they began to organize themselves into a pattern of even beeps.

That's when I was aware of the pressure over my mouth. Instinct and faulty memory told me it was the hand, blocking my voice. But when I snapped open my eyes, I could see through the plastic exterior of the breathing device, and then feel the tubes uncomfortably jostle in my throat when I emitted a sound of momentary terror.

"John? Can you hear me, John?"

I started to blink profusely, the lighting so bright in contrast to the darkness I had just awoken from. I felt my eyes begin to sting and tears of discomfort began to well up, blurring my vision. I moaned around the constricting tubes jammed down my throat, trying to convey my confusion even if the sound was pitiful and frightful.

"John? John, look at me."

My eyes shifted to the right where a blurry image stood before me. I saw his form standing there. His blue scarf wrapped lazily over his unfolded collar, his angular face looking down at me with almost a look of concern, but of course that wouldn't last long. I can just make out a twitch of his lips; a smile.

"John?"

The mouth moves, but the voice isn't his. It's feminine. A woman's. I blink once again, furling my brows slightly and trying my best to focus. It's not Sherlock.

It's Molly.

"Oh, John," she sighed in relief, her bright but reserved smile making itself visible. Her brown hair was tied back in a ponytail as usual, though a few strands were escaping. She quickly tucked them behind her undecorated ears, her same small smile flashing once again. "You've finally woken up," she breathed out once again, her shoulders dropping in a more relaxed way.

I made another pitiful sound, like a gurgle, my hands moving up to my face weakly and toying around with the mask, trying to figure out a means to take the sodding thing off.

"Oh, no, sorry," Molly was quick to respond, gently pulling my hands away, much to my dismay. "You can't take it off just yet," she frowned with a genuinely apologetic face, trying an awkward half-smile afterwards as she quietly added "sorry."

"You really had me surprised, you know."

Mycroft's usual snide remark filtered its way to me. I couldn't see him very well, but I could tell he wore the same grave face mixed with some other emotion that was hard to define. Almost disappointment.

"You went this morning to see an old friend and you left in an ambulance. Not exactly the most ideal situation, is it." The Holmes brother moved closer to the bed, his coat slung over his arm and both hands pocketed.

Now I had a better view of the look he wore. His pointed nose only exaggerated the frown he wore, a sort of demeaning quality in what he said.

"I heard about what he told you."

My eyes had begun to form more tears. I convinced myself it was because of the device forced down my throat, but the sensation of letting the tears escape grew steadily stronger the moment Mycroft mentioned the events earlier today.

"Not really what I had in mind. Of course, Sherlock always was hard to predict-even when he was slightly more sane…" his voice drifted off, his eyes cast down to his shoes where I could tell he was fidgeting a little. I knew Mycroft cared for Sherlock. It had been made obvious the moment he asked me to visit him. But I also knew Mycroft hated showing any emotion that would imply weakness. So after a moment of silence, he looked back up at me and corrected his train of thought. "Do get better soon, doctor. It pains me to know this happened to you." His words were stated with clarity and conviction, but all the while his eyes were fixed on mine and they did not show any sympathy or compassion.

I suddenly got the feeling there was an underlying statement planted in those words.

Molly had been avoiding all eye contact during the entire conversation and just now decided to chipper in. "Well, speaking of recovery, the good news is that you'll be making a _full _recovery...er… that sounded better in my head," she looked down again, the loose strands slipping from their confines and once again, she immediately fixed them.

I appreciated her company. I even was touched by Mycroft's being there. A little touched. But even when I was surrounded by old friends, it just made me think of time long since past. I remembered standing alongside the bed with them. I remember being on my feet and listening as Sherlock deducted some key evidence to breaking our newest case and finding the culprit.

"Er... John?"

I looked up at Molly with a wary gaze. I had a feeling she was keeping something from me. Something important. I didn't like the look on her face. Molly was never good at lying. Just a reflection of her lovely, loyal character, but foreboding in this instance.

I didn't like the tension building in my gut as I laid helpless under the covers with a machine pumping air into my lungs. Was I prepared for what she was about to tell me?

"About your full recovery, em… It technically is true...physically. W-what I mean is… The truth is…"

"Your psychosomatic limp has returned." Mycroft's eyes bore into mine. He said it so easily. "It's not uncommon for someone to regain an affliction such as this, especially when they experience something that triggers great emotional distress and trauma." He had said it like he were reading a school research paper.

The beeps of the monitor grew more rapid and brief. I closed my eyes, breathing through my nose and balling my fists. My brows twitched, thoughts running through my head and the feeling of immense humility and distraughtness overcoming me. I had won this battle. I had gotten over my fear. Why couldn't that be the end of it? I had already won. Hadn't I?

"John?"

Molly's voice was hesitant and pregnant with worry. "You've dealt with it before. It's probably extremely temporary. Maybe only a week or two." she added reasons to be optimistic in quick succession, and I knew she was just trying to lighten the severity of the situation. Her input didn't help despite her thoughtful intentions.

"Not likely," Mycroft muttered. "You suffered the limp first after you had been wounded in the shoulder. This time, it returned after a terse meeting with my brother. It's safe to assume you're in a more fragile state this time around." The way he said it was unnervingly condescending and transparent. My face flared red in both anger and frustration, though I couldn't honestly say it was aimed at the Holmes brother, and especially not Molly. Though, what Mycroft said did nothing to comfort me. I was upset at myself.

Sherlock's death had broken me down. I was back to square one. Lonely, depressed, and horribly, horribly unstable. I was barely able to take care of myself after Sherlock died on that sidewalk. I had moved out of the flat less than a week afterwards and said my goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson. I had moved back into my former apartment, the one I had lived in before I had ever met the great detective. I was literally back where I was when I had been discharged from the army and with no where to go. Only this time, I had lost something I was sure to never get back.

I was able to recover everything: my loneliness, my distress, my worries and doubts, and even my damned psychosomatic limp. But I'd never get my friend back.

It was painfully ironic.

"But you never know!" Molly's voice rose above Mycroft's, her big brown eyes shooting a glance over in the Holmes brother's direction. "These things aren't predictable. There's no magical treatment, but miracles happen," she said softly, clasping her hands together before her white coat, her stethoscope slung over her neck.

"Well, like I said, do make a hasty recovery," Mycroft straightened his jacket and made a curt smile. It was almost involuntary, like a programmed action. He started towards the door and paused for a second. "Oh, um. Mrs. Hudson stopped by earlier and dropped this off. She sends her regrets."

I opened my eyes, looking to what Mycroft held in his hands and staring defeatedly at what it was: my bloody cane.

It looked rustic. Like some medieval torture device. It was truly my ball-and-chain. With the cane being bestowed upon me once more, I suddenly felt more trapped than I had ever felt before. Even with the tracheal tube still lodged in my throat and my weak muscles confined to the cheap hospital mattress. The cane sparked a familiar fear inside of me. I began to dread moving at all. The effort I'd need to walk, to run… it seemed impossible. I thought about my dependency on the simple curved tool. My psychological need for it to be by my side always. It was my crutch. But, wasn't I injured enough?

"Until next time," Mycroft left, placing the cane on the chair by the door. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The silver seemed to glare at me, taunting me. It dared me to try and make it across the room to retrieve it. It reminded me that I'd never part ways with it again. Like a drug, it needed me and I needed it.

Molly seemed to sense my silence and began to depart ways also. She continued to tell me to keep my hopes up and that this wasn't a big deal. "Just another bump in the road, really," she said. She went on to apologize about what happened with Sherlock. She didn't know the details, and the subject was even hard for her to mention judging from the way her lips would tremble when she began to say his name, but she was determined to leave me with some form of an apology.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't even if I wanted to. For once, I was actually glad I had an excuse not to talk. Suddenly, my foolish fear of being smothered and my words being distorted sounded all the more ridiculous. Now, I was afraid of admitting I was losing it. I was slowly, but surely, crumpling into a heap of emotional disaster. Only time would tell when the day came that I fell to my knees and wept, shouted, and screamed until my lungs gave way.

Yet, a naive part of me still clung to the idea that I could make it through. That I was still John Hamish Watson, doctor and ex-soldier; a man who was hardy and lasted through a war, mostly unscathed. I had dealt with a criminal mastermind and had been the flat-mate of the world's most inconsiderate and arrogant consulting detective. Surely, I could make it through this.

I breathed in through my nose and felt my exhale twist around the obstruction in my throat.

At that moment, I finally understood Mycroft's words. Make a hasty recovery so I might visit Sherlock again. That was what he wanted. He needed me to go once more into the fray and come out ready for battle at the next moment's notice.

It was a ruthless idea at best. Even for Mycroft it seemed cold and impersonal. But I'd do it. I'll go back.

But not for Mycroft; for myself.

And with a sense of determination and trepidation, I sealed my fate. I was going to prove Sherlock still existed. I was going to search in the deepest, darkest places and find the truth.

And even though I felt a part of me return in that moment of decisiveness, a part of me squirmed at the thought I had done exactly what he had predicted. What he had told me with frightening certainty:

"_Don't worry, you'll be back." _

And he was goddamn right.


	3. Chapter 3

**I AM SHERLOCKED**

Chapter Three:

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><p><strong>AN:<strong> _Hello guys! Thanks for reading and, hopefully, enjoying my story thus far! :D_

_I hope you all know that I own none of these characters and that this plot is entirely of my own imagination and creation. It is based in the Sherlock Universe and kind of spirals around after the Reichenbach Fall. I apologize for my OOC moments (I try to keep them limited) and do hope you like what I am writing :] If you have any comments or questions, please, let me know! I love seeing your guys' comments and it really motivates me to keep on going. I will warn you, this story was originally meant to be rated M. I rated this T for now because it has not yet gotten to that part, but it very well may reach that point. Again, if I ever decide to write up to that part of the story. It really depends on you guys and the reactions I see! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so... ta daa! Can't wait for series 4~ :] It's going to be awesome! Anyways, enjoy! R&R if you can! It is greatly appreciated! If anyone has ideas, I might include them and dedicate a chapter to them. Who knows! _

_Now grab a cup of tea and some bread and jam and hold on for the ride! _

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><p>The very next day, I was released from hospital and was allowed to return to where I had been living. The doctors warned me to allow my body time to adjust and recuperate. Though I was out of the hospital, one false move and I could just as easily be sent back for an extended period of time.<p>

"Go back to your regular routine and don't do anything strenuous. I recommend staying a night longer in bed with our supervision, but because you've persistently told us that is not what you wish, I will leave the responsibility of recovering to you. I warn you, Mr. Watson, you shouldn't take what happened too lightly. Based on your medical history, I can tell you this will likely happen again if you continue to ignore our specialists' advice. So take the first step and go back home and rest up. Oh, and," he fished unclipped a business card from his clipboard and handed it to me. "Another word of advice, go see your therapist."

I refrained from saying anything. They had long since removed the mask from over my face, but there was nothing pleasant I could say in response. I was standing, leaning against my cane, and a dull twinge aching in my leg. I was contracting muscles in my jaw and actively avoiding looking in his eyes.

"It'll help. It really will."

With my left hand, I reluctantly took the business card and deposited it into my other coat pocket; the one I never used.

After I had hailed a cab, the silence prompted me to continue thinking about the decision I had made. The decision to go back to that place and brave through another session of sitting across from a stranger and trying to isolate any part of Sherlock that might still be intact.

Why did I feel like it was the worst decision I had ever made?

I tapped my finger on the curved end of the cane, my left stuffed into my coat pocket where I could hide the tremors that had begun to plague me. I closed my eyes and forced another breath in my nose and out between my lips.

The mere thought of going back began to make me feel nauseous and begin to perspire. I wiped my left hand shakily over my brow and could feel a paralyzing episode of panic taking hold of me.

I dug around in my pockets for my handkerchief. My mind was starting to fade again and for some reason, I could not do this simple action calmly. I began to thrash around in my jacket, making sounds of frustration and heightening agitation. My hand jammed itself into the folds of my clothes and rummaged with chaotic and lack of direction. I felt something soft and yanked my hand out of my pocket without bothering to sort through things.

I brought everything in my hand to my attention and froze when I felt added weight in my palm. I paused, lines etching between my brows as I hesitantly moved the handkerchief away from whatever it was covering.

It was my phone. My cell phone. My sister's name etched into the back and the scratches covering its cold exterior.

_You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, and never see a drunk's without them. _

I clapped my hand over my mouth to stop the choking cry from escaping.

"Stop! Stop the cab!" I blurted. My stomach fluttered as the car veered to the left, pulling to a stop.

The cabbie turned to me and was saying something but everything started to grow muffled and I could feel the sharp, terrorizing sensation of my mind closing in on itself. _I was going to bloody faint if I didn't get out of this car right now. _

I felt my chest hum as strained whimpers of panic started to involuntarily escape me. I dropped everything in my hands. I frantically grasped for the door and pushed, letting the open air in.

I forced myself out the opening and scrambled to the sidewalk, using whatever was around me to support me as I staggered out. I left my cane in the car without thinking and nearly crashed to the ground when I stepped forward with my right foot. My knee buckled and I half-fell to the ground, my left hand shaking madly as I held onto something for dear life.

I hunched over, hyperventilating with my eyes opening wide and shutting closed sporadically. The faint-feeling hanging over my head continued to grow stronger, so I grew more panicked.

_Alright, John. Calm your breathing and focus on me. _

"_I can't. I bloody can't!"_

_Focus on me, John. Focus. Close your eyes, and focus._

"_Okay...okay…" _

_Are you focusing?_

"_Yes. Yes, I'm focusing…" _

_Good. Now breathe. Breathe when I tell you to, okay, John?_

Another whimper of panic slipped past but I nodded vigorously.

"_Okay." _

_Inhale. Keeping inhaling. _

I did as Sherlock told me.

_Now exhale. Slow down and relax. You're experiencing a panic-attack. Stop hyperventilating and your nausea and lightheadedness should fade. _

"_Okay. Okay." _

_Sir, are you all right?_

"_What?"_

_Sir, can you hear me? Should I call the ambulance?_

I opened my eyes and the cabbie was directly in front of me, fanning air towards me with a newspaper he must have grabbed from the stand I was leaning against.

As I started to react, the cabbie's distress waned and he breathed a relieved sigh. "Do I need to call someone? Do you have medication?"

"No, no, I'm fine," I whispered. I felt tired. Exhausted. "I just want to go...go home."

"Okay, okay. Let's get back in the car. The address you gave me, is that home?"

I nodded rapidly with my eyes closed as I was led back to the car. I used the cabbie as a crutch until I was back in my seat and the car started up. I kept my eyes closed, rubbing my temples with both hands as I hunched over, my elbows on my knees.

Although I was once again calmed and functioning normal, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach. A grief was settling on my shoulders and I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps it was just the after effect of a moment of distress. More likely, I feared, it was because Sherlock had been the only thing holding me together. And he had just been a figment of my imagination. I had even heard his voice evaluating my panic and giving me a diagnosis. Was I really that pathetic? Was I really so lost without him?

And worse off, I was beginning to think that's all Sherlock was. A product of my own mind and necessity. A part of my own conscience. That all Sherlock ever was had been something made up.

For the first time, I wasn't sure if I really believed in Sherlock Holmes. And the grief doubled ten-fold and I felt like I had betrayed my one and only, best-friend.

I had made it home. The cabbie was more than willing to help me to the porch and made sure I got in safe and sound. He was very kind and I paid him a little extra for all the trouble he had gone through. I apologized a little at that moment, but my fatigue and general embarrassment had made the ordeal short and meaningless.

It was now late at night. I had tried to sleep for hours on end, but all I could manage were half-hour long moments of rest and varying hours of terrible consciousness in between.

At present, I was sitting on the mess of overturned sheets and restless thrashing and turning. My head and back were pressed against the bare wall, my eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. My laptop was laid beside me, the screen producing a column of light in the dark of the late night hour.

The screen showed a web-page; my web-page. The blog I had started with Sherlock. Regrettably, I had to admit I was unable to help but read through all the cases I had written and posted. I memorized every word and recalled the moments I had been stumped on what to say and asked for Sherlock's input. Of course, his input was hardly ever used, but even as I read through them now I could distinguish every line that was inspired by the man's responses.

"_The science of deduction,"_ he had said once.

"_Brilliant,"_ was my response.

I had even smiled sadly when glancing at a curious case I had written. "Sherlock Holmes, Baffled" was the title.

"_Don't put the unsolved ones!"_ I heard him protest. I told him it was more successful than listing 240 different types of tobacco ash. I subsequently heard his voice correct me: "_243 to be exact."_

To my amazement, the blog was still doing incredibly well. The web-page counter was still in the thousands. Still popular even after my months of absence. Comments were flooding the comment sections, but they all had the same questions.

_What happened? I heard Sherlock Holmes jumped off a roof! What happened to this blog? Why has nothing been posted? Is Sherlock Holmes dead? What is the answer to the case? Why is this one still unsolved! What about the case! _

_Is Sherlock Holmes dead? _

I had quickly exited out of the page. The amount of questions were too much to add to the ones I already had floating listlessly in my mind with no answer in sight. Instead, I had gone to another page. To my drafts. The latest draft.

I read my latest excerpt:

_The details of this case are far too shocking to describe too clearly, but what I can say is that Sherlock continues to surprise me with his knowledge of forensic sciences (identifying locations from dirt and matter from just a pair of old sneakers), his extensive memory (he recalled an event long since passed that was critical to solving this case), and his incredible acting skills (though I don't necessarily agree with how he used this skill, it did help in gaining information). This particular case has become more of a twisted game than a challenge of science and knowledge. I'm not sure I can compare it with something we've done before to better express this to all of you. On a higher note, we've managed to stay in the game and are closer than ever to solving this case. _

The rest of the draft is rubbish and is the obvious work of a struggling writer. I've tried rewriting this countless times, but I've always ended up with less than I started with. Eventually I gave up entirely.

I wanted to bring some kind of conclusion to the blog. Some kind of response to the public outrage that I've been seeing lately, but… to write an end was too final. It was too deceiving when in actuality this story was anything but finished.

I wished the case were solved. I wished Sherlock had died when he took the fall. I wished I could mourn for my friend's death and continue to believe that Sherlock was a good man and a loyal friend. Because at least I'd be able to move on and admit Sherlock had an end-no matter how sad that ending was.

Instead, I was treated to a fake burial and ceremony where I saw my friend's name plastered on a gravestone and a nameless, unknown body lowered into his plot. I walked away that dark day, dressed in black and ready to continue my life when Mycroft pulled me into his nondescript black car and said: "Sherlock survived."

"What do you mean Sherlock survived?" I looked at Mycroft with disbelief. "Y-you're telling me..that..that Sherlock is alive..that...that this has all been just one big show and that it was a perfectly fine thing to do to let me believe that my best friend...my...best friend...fell and died?" I was ready to lunge at Mycroft and latch my hands onto his throat. How could he, even he, have the audacity to trick me and put me through this horrible, horrible ignorance.

Mycroft must have seen the anger flaring in my eyes and the tension rise for he paused at that moment and chose his words carefully: "There's a perfectly fine explanation-"

"No! There's not!" I shouted, spittle flying out my mouth at the ferocity I said those words. "Don't tell me there's a reasonable explanation for this because there is _not_!"

Mycroft had actually flinched at my outburst. He physically flinched, but that had not given me enough satisfaction. "If you'd let me explain, Dr. Watson, perhaps you'd at least be a little appeased," he raised his voice.

I was fuming and I didn't want to hear anymore of what he had to say, but the possibility that Sherlock was alive and that Mycroft could tell me how and why was enough to make me silent, though glaring daggers all the while.

"Well, then," Mycroft began, straightening his jacket once more and nodding towards the driver of the vehicle who began to drive away from the graveyard. "Sherlock survived. His head was smashed open and he's currently in a coma, but he's breathing. The doctors can't tell me if he'll survive the night or not, but he's alive. At the moment."

"Who...who did we bury, then? Why are we even having this burial if Sherlock is still alive?" Questions were pouring out my mouth like a broken dam, but Mycroft gave me a severe look and I allowed him to finish.

"There remains the possibility for Sherlock to make a recovery, but he needed to 'die'. We've gone through with his 'death' in order to make certain that his survival didn't have any...repercussions."

"Repercussions? I don't understand."

"Moriarty was found dead on the rooftop. It looked like he had shot himself in the head. Now, knowing Moriarty and the fact Sherlock was up there with him, there must have been a reason he killed himself-or tried to at least. My first thought had been that Moriarty was forcing Sherlock to kill himself in order to save someone else. But because Moriarty had died before Sherlock decided to take his leap of faith, well, it opened up much more...darker conclusions."

I stared at the man, my chest tightening and apprehension swelling and twisting painfully inside me. "What are you trying to say."

"Sherlock said he was a fake to you, didn't he?"

I held my breath, a sharp pang of dread instilled inside me. Though I said nothing, Mycroft must have read my expression. "I thought so. The story with Richard Brooks has been contained for the most part, but not soon enough. Sherlock has been leaked as a fraud. Judging from Moriarty's part in all this, I can only guess that it's because of this story that Sherlock tried to kill himself."

From the way Mycroft concluding his story, I could tell he was intent on leaving it there, but it gave me no answer. "What about the story? Mycroft, why did...why did Sherlock...why did he try to take his own life?"

Mycroft hesitated. I could see the momentary reluctance flash in his eyes and the way he stilled. "Because Sherlock thought that taking his own life was the only way to redeem himself..."

_Redeem himself? Why would he need to redeem himself… _

And if reading my thoughts, Mycroft said with more clarity: "Because the story is true."

"You can't seriously believe that Sherlock lied!" I locked eyes with Holmes brother and shook my head at the incredulous answer he gave me. Mycroft should know Sherlock had been lying when he told him. But what I saw was his grave expression, unfazed by what I said. He looked unaffected by my remark and cemented in his own belief.

"Then, Dr. Watson, do explain to me why Sherlock, my own dear brother, would take his own life."

And eventhough I was so certain that Mycroft's analysis had been wrong and that Sherlock was not a fake, I found myself at a loss for words and with no other ideas as to why a crime-solving genius, who was authentic in every way, would try to kill himself if what Mycroft told me was not true.

And as if my silence was the final judgement, Mycroft nodded to the driver and the car stopped. "I'll contact you again, Dr. Watson. Do try and keep this secret amongst the both of us. We wouldn't want Sherlock's 'death' to be in vain. After all, if Sherlock doesn't wake up, it might become reality."

A man in the passenger seat got out and opened the door for me. I gave Mycroft one last look, a helpless, baffled expression. I couldn't believe that Sherlock was a fraud, but I couldn't believe an innocent man would have taken his life either.

The man got back in the car and the tinted windows left me hoping that Mycroft was now talking of the success of his lie and that he was now letting the truth show on his face when I couldn't see it. I held this single hope close by as I turned around and looked at the straightened "221b" on the door.

Then it dawned on me that Mycroft had been there and had been searching. Helplessly looking for something that would shed doubt on his suspicions that Sherlock had tried to commit suicide because he was a fake. That the man had thoroughly picked his way through this story and was left with what he had begun with.

Mycroft hadn't lied. So all my hope was placed somewhere else. On Sherlock. I pushed all my thoughts to willing Sherlock to wake up so I might ask him of that day and know that he lied about it. About being a fraud. That it was all part of a shrewd plan that I was too "simple-minded" to put trust in. That he would tell me that he was real. Everything about him was real. I believed in Sherlock Holmes.

And he did wake up. And Mycroft did contact me. So I went and I sat across from him and listened as he threw my hopes on the ground and crushed them beneath the heels of his dulled shoes.

This time, it was I, in the middle of the night, remembering his face as he told me of his little ploy about being a fake, and how easily he confirmed my worst fears.

"_It's all true."_

_Of course._


	4. Chapter 4

**I AM SHERLOCKED:**

Chapter Four:

The bills came in today. More of them, I should say. I'm starting to feel like a hoarder with more of these letters beginning to take up more space than I'd like.

Sherlock and I found our detective work had never been very lucrative, even with our success. It had been more of a public service, really. We were making the world a more just place. More precisely,we were solving the crimes more for ourselves than for the money. Sherlock was in it for the challenge, and I was along for the ride.

The blog did help. But, for obvious reasons I stopped keeping up with it and the savings gradually disappeared.

I thought about getting a job. I really had seriously considered it. I almost turned in another application to the hospital, but along with Sarah being there, undoubtedly she still remembered the terrifying date we had gone on, there was also reluctance on my part. I felt like I was turning my back on him. That I was giving our greatest adventures up.

I could never find a job quite as thrilling as the one I had employed myself with by staying at Sherlock's side. The thought of civilian life still scared me. The life without Sherlock was even more frightening.

**When you have the time, come to the Institute. Quickly.**

**MH**

I had the strangest feeling he didn't really care if I had the time or not. Mycroft had not wasted a single moment in contacting me. I wasn't entirely surprised judging from when he last spoke to me. He did say to get better soon. At least now he couldn't call _me _a liar.

"Oh god," I sighed, running a hand through my short hair. _What was I getting myself into? _

I didn't waste time getting prepared. I already felt like a bloody mess, but I wasn't going to give Sherlock anymore ammunition to get under my skin if I could help it. And no matter how disturbing it was to think that Sherlock would try to unnerve me, I knew it was true.

I showered, running cold water over my body to try and wake up. I hadn't slept a wink last night and I didn't want it to be too glaringly obvious.

I combed through my hair and tried not to be too bothered by the amount of loose hair that came out with it. My hair didn't look any more thinned than normal, but the fact everything was taking a physical toll on me was unsettling.

I shaved my face for the first time in days. I had actually started to grow a patchy beard and a moustache. I almost kept the moustache, but I decided it would be best not to. I wouldn't let Sherlock have the satisfaction.

I looked myself in the eye in the mirror and picked out everything that was possibly wrong with me. I looked weak, stressed, thin, and paranoid. The bags under my eyes looked inflamed and worse than ever. My eyes were darting around like scared prey. My hands couldn't stop shaking, even when I pressed them against the sides of the sink. I couldn't stop moving my jaw or twitching my nose.

"Alright, okay…" I muttered to myself, not liking how faint I sounded even when directed towards my own reflection. I looked down, took a deep breath, and looked back up. "You haven't any money," I commented, furrowing my brows slightly. At least my voice had cleared. "You haven't got a girlfriend, you're lonely and you've got a damn psychosomatic limp" I surprised myself at how sharply I pronounced the profane word, a moment of anger taking over me. I muttered an apology at myself and then worried at how natural it came out.

I took another sigh and refocused. "You're John Hamish Watson, ex-army doctor of the fifth regiment Northumberland Fusiliers… I've been shot. I've killed more men than I'd like to remember and I've been held hostage by a criminal mastermind with c4 strapped to my bloody chest…" I felt a surge of confidence well up inside me and I started to believe that I could make it through this day alive.

I nodded as if confirming everything I had just said, my reflection returning a still apprehensive expression, but at least it retained some composure.

I heard something vibrate in the next room and left the bathroom feeling a little better about myself. I found my phone and frowned.

**Your speech was endearing. Really. Get in the car.**

**MH **

I paused and had to read the message over again before I could let the embarrassment blanket my face. My eyes immediately began to scan around my room. At least I knew Mycroft had one camera in the bathroom. But suddenly, after thinking about it a moment more, that realization didn't give me any comfort at all.

I got dressed in my coat and shoes and limped my way outside. A black car sat at the end of the driveway, the exhaust running and the tinted windows glaring back.

I stood outside, hesitating for just a moment. That car was surely taking me to the Institute and this was the last time I'd be able to relax. I took a deep breath and tried to remember my little list of encouraging facts, using the cane to walk toward the car.

Before I could get too close, a man emerged from the passenger side and opened the door for me. I could see Mycroft waiting in the back, his large nose pointed towards the front of the car, not even looking in my direction. He looked focused, as usual, and was hard to discern. I got in the car and the door shut behind me.

The car started to pull away from the curb and make its way onto the road. Minutes of wordless time transpired between everyone in the car. I would've normally liked to spend my time with Mycroft in peace and quiet, recalling that he usually said something that upset me far too frequently. But today, I had too many questions.

"Sorry, but did you...did you bug my bathroom?" I blurted out. Strangely, this was the question that had been pressing me the most.

Mycroft only sighed and didn't look in my direction. "If you must ask, it's not just your bathroom. I took precautions. And don't worry, it's just a microphone. Not anything too invasive."

"_Too invasive_?" I parroted with a snort. "When has the concept of surveilling someone else's home _not _been invasive? The mere idea of it? Just because it's only a microphone doesn't make it any less discomforting!"

"Though I'd love to chat about something that's been installed in that home over three years ago-"

"What?!"

"-There are more _important_ things on my mind…" Mycroft faced me at last, one brow raised and the other furled. "Take this briefcase."

From the floor of the car, Mycroft handed me a briefcase that was freakishly similar to my own. It was brown and even had a worn look. I took it with slight bewilderment.

Upon seeing my reaction, Mycroft nearly rolled his eyes. I could see his brow twitch. "Open it," he instructed when I failed to do so quickly enough.

I pulled the latches down and the lid popped open. I pushed it away from the other half and examined the contents. There were papers that looked like they belonged in a briefcase, a couple of pens, a notepad, and a curious item: a small, tiny earpiece. Something out of a Bond film.

"What's this?" I held the tiny device in my hand, knowing very well what it was, but not at all what for.

"You wear it in your ear," Mycroft stated blandly. I frowned slightly. "I'll have its twin with me. I'll be telling you what to say and what to do."

"What?"

"I simply cannot have a repeat of what happened last time. I need answers, and you're going to get them for me."

"So, I'm your puppet. Basically. That's what you're telling me."

"Do you have a problem with this, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft raised his chin, looking me in the eye with a haughtiness that was far too familiar.

I began to grit my teeth again, muscles bulging out on my jaw as I worked my anxiety away. "I'll get your answers, but I want to be able to speak freely. I don't need you talking in my ear." I hated the way I stammered on some words, but I hoped he took it as seriously as I wanted him to. I wanted answers just as much, but I didn't need Mycroft telling me what to say. I knew Sherlock. I didn't need his help.

"Are you absolutely certain about that?" Mycroft's gaze never left my eyes, even when I looked away to view the rest of the car. Black. Everything was black. The driver was dressed in black. The interior was black.

"I'll get answers. I will."

Mycroft didn't look convinced. "I believe you're having money troubles, am I correct? You admitted it yourself just ten minutes ago, so I wouldn't bother lying."

"Sorry, are you bribing me?" I shaped my mouth into a smile, narrowing my eyes and lowering my brows at the audacity of the man before me. A sound of disbelief escaped me, and I was almost tempted to laugh. "You are, aren't you? You really are."

"Call it whatever you'd like, Dr. Watson, but I know for a fact you're jobless and not in a position to change that anytime soon. I also know for a fact it's out of your own doing you haven't applied anywhere yet, so I'm led to believe you haven't got any source of income in the world." His words stung, but I said nothing and kept my face even and let out another snort. "So I'm offering to pay, if that's what it takes."

"How much?" I called his bluff, but he seemed perfectly genuine.

"A large sum," he responded immediately. We stared at each other. Both trying to predict the next move. It was beginning to turn into a more personal matter than solving the problem with Sherlock. "I know I offered you money before to look after my brother. You refused and now look where he's ended up."

My smile dropped and I felt an overwhelming wave of anger run through my veins. "Are you blaming me for what happened?"

"Of course not. I should've done a better job myself, but the truth of the matter is I'm offering you another chance. Ask my questions, get the answers, and I will pay you."

Although I was heavily agitated with the Holmes brother and I disagreed with the idea of having him using me as a translator, I did need the money. Maybe it wasn't actually a bad idea. Now that I thought about it, being alone with that man...what would I even say to him? What did I have to say to him? I fell apart last time, and even though I felt better prepared today, I still didn't completely believe I had everything in control.

Maybe Mycroft's proposition had more sense than I thought.

"Fine. I'll accept."

"Good," Mycroft made an attempt at a smile though it looked just as fake as the one he'd given me at the hospital. "Put this in your ear and follow my instructions."

I sighed and placed the small device into my ear, already regretting my decision but unable to go back on my word. I already felt trapped with the bloody thing stuck in my ear.

The car pulled to a stop and instantly I felt chills running along my skin. I froze up and had to close my eyes again and take a series of long, deep breaths.

"Good luck, Watson," Mycroft said. Even a positive message like that sounded demeaning in his voice. "Try not to let him get the best of you this time around." His inflection was light-hearted, his voice pulling up at the end of the sentence, and I found it annoyingly nonchalant.

The car door opened and I exited the car, pulling the cane close to my hip.

Here I was. Once again.

I watched my left hand tremble once again and stuffed it into my pocket. I stilled my body and forced my chin up as I started to walk towards my doom.

I entered the building and repeated the process of searching for my card, but I managed to hold some integrity intact this time around. I was once again led down the empty halls until I reached a stopping point. I could already tell it was a different room. Thinking back on it, I had broken the mirror. I suddenly felt embarrassed by the memory, but I didn't understand why it was affecting me so much now.

_Keep it together… _ I told myself. The door opened for me and like the room before, there was a plain, simple chair bolted to the floor and another located across the room from it. Mirrors lined the walls like wallpaper and glared back at me. I averted my eyes from my reflection, already well aware of what I looked like.

I couldn't bare to see the fear on my face. Not right now.

"Please wait in your chair. He'll be brought in soon."

"_John, can you hear me?_"

Mycroft's voice was unexpected, and admittedly unpleasant. I flinched, momentarily forgetting I was wearing the earpiece. I fiddled with it, trying to discover if there was a way to possibly mute it or turn down the volume.

"_For God's sake, stop picking at it. If I wanted him to know you were listening to me then I would've just interviewed him myself!"_

"Well, sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm pretty sure he's going to figure it out eventually," I muttered under my breath.

"_Well that's the idea. Eventually isn't immediately. The longer it takes for him to find out, the longer we have to be strategic about this. Just do whatever you can to keep him from finding out too soon. Reword if you like, but just don't __**ignore**__." _

"Alright, alright...A please wouldn't be too devastating now and then, you know."

"_You do know you're getting paid for this, Watson. Don't tell me you've already forgotten. It's only been five minutes." _

That was the closest I was going to get to a thank you.

Of course, every thought I had disappeared when a door across the room opened and Sherlock was escorted in with two men on either side. His hands were cuffed behind his back and chains were shackled around his ankles. He looked like a murderer from the way they chained him up and treated him.

He was placed in the bolted chair, his ankles first strapped in, and then his wrists. He did not struggle or resist. He seemed more like a puppet than I, moving his hands when they pulled the strings and doing only what they wanted him to. He acted docile.

But his eyes had remained on me the entire time. The ice cold blues were marred with red, and they latched on to me so intently, I had the urge to squirm in my seat and look away. But I did not.

I sat still and matched his gaze. I did not blink and dared not avert my eyes should he think it a weakness. I was not going to give this man any validation that he was making me fearful or uncomfortable. No. I was playing his game.

If he wanted to intimidate, then I would play along.

The last of the binds had been strapped down and the men left the room. Sooner than I even noticed, I was alone with Sherlock Holmes. I knew the mirrors were really windows from the right side, but I could never have felt more isolated than in that moment when everyone left and all I could feel was Sherlock's gaze, analyzing.

"So my deduction was correct. You've come back," he smirked. his hair was more unkempt than the times he'd sulk on the couch from boredom. A grayish shadow masked over the lower half of his face and I could tell he hadn't been sleeping.

"Surprised? That doesn't sound like you," I folded my arms, leveling with his own tone and determined to win this game.

"You don't even know who I am," he chuckled. "I already told you, I'm not the consulting detective you thought I was," he leaned forward at this, hissing out the words.

"Well, I guess you're right about that," I took another deep breath, looking down as I unfolded my arms and clasped my hands instead, moving my thumbs absentmindedly. "But you still made a brilliant deduction. You couldn't have possibly researched that I'd come back, now could you?" I looked back up at him, smiling up at the man out of a growing feeling of courage deep inside me.

I wasn't going to let him see me react so easily.

"Come now, John. Anyone could have predicted that," I tried not to let my smile falter at what he said, but it was dreadfully difficult. "You're much too sentimental to leave me be."

"That may be true," I nodded in accordance. "But I bet you can tell me a lot of other things about me." I leaned forwards, still smiling though my eyes lacked the amused gleam.

The man mimicked my motion, leaning forwards and grinning devilishly. "That you're stressed? Yes, I can see that. You've also picked up the habit of smoking, something I noticed our last meeting but didn't quite get to after you bolted out the door like a bitch with its tail between its legs. You've begun storing a carton in your coat pocket, and I can only assume you're keeping a lighter handy also. It's a nasty habit, really. Smoking. I'd recommend dabbling with drugs. Much more effective and sanitary if you clean the needles properly. I can also tell you that you're suffering from insomnia. You didn't sleep at all these past few days, have you? You're also losing weight, probably suffering from depression, and look at that… you've got your cane back. Guess I our last meeting shocked you so much you suffered trauma and psychological damage," he grinned like a fiend at me. Showing all his perfect teeth and never turning away even as he deducting everything. And everything he said was true. Painfully true. The lack of emotion in his voice and the way he read me like an open book stung. It truly did. "How pathetic is that."

I looked down from his eyes, unable to maintain eye contact when my vision started to blur from oncoming tears. But unlike last time, I merely willed them away and felt a burning desire to return the favor overcome me instead. I let out a laugh. It wasn't substantial and it wasn't meant to convey any real emotion except to release the pressure in my chest. It was a sad laugh, a quiet sound.

I looked back up to the man, his face gleaming with victory as he read my actions carefully and exactly. "If there's one thing I knew about Sherlock Holmes, it's that he was the biggest show off I had ever known."

His smile twitches in the faintest degree and I knew I had struck a chord. I continued, urged on by the small dent in his defenses. "I guess some things don't change. Even in death."


	5. Chapter 5

**I AM SHERLOCKED:**

Chapter Five:

The room was as quiet as a grave. I had begun to feel a little more courage swell in my chest. I wasn't as afraid. But, I was still terrified. The room had grown considerably more still. The air was stagnant but thick with uncategorized tension. My black windbreaker seemed to turn paper-thin as chills started to make the hairs on my arms stand erect. Courage or no courage, I was slowly losing under Sherlock's even gaze.

I wasn't hard to read. Anyone could have taken a glance at me and seen that I was suffering from some sort of ailment. You didn't have to be a deducting genius to notice that. But when I looked at Sherlock, and though I knew he was suffering from something, too, I drew a blank.

_Hasn't shaved in days… doesn't appear to be sleeping well...his hair is greasy and his appearance doesn't show any form of hygienic care or seems to be bothersome to him at all. _

And while my diagnosis might be all correct, I couldn't help but rest it all on one absolute fact: Sherlock was being kept in a bloody psych ward. Of _course_ he looks the way he does.

I knew they probably prevented Sherlock from coming in contact with any item he could use to hurt someone, or himself. Among those objects were razor blades. So his darkening lower jaw wasn't something I could pin to a change in character. And I knew bloody well that if I had been thrown into a psych ward, I'd have trouble sleeping and I can understand falling into a depressed state where you wouldn't want to clean yourself up or make an attempt at looking presentable because in all honesty, who were you going to present yourself to? I had been the same way until this morning. And the only reason I had decided to shave at all was because I was trying to prevent Sherlock from doing exactly what I was doing now.

In the end, I was left with absolutely nothing. There was nothing substantial I could detect about the man before me that he wouldn't expect me to already know. I was losing this game.

"I know this game, Watson. I've played it far too often to be fooled by amateur acting." His tone had changed to a softer threat, but the words left his lips with perfectly pronounced beginnings and ends, making everything a little sharper. I had heard Sherlock use this tone before when he was particularly upset and degrading. Sadly, the only instance I could quite clearly recall was when Sherlock was confronting a madman in a public pool.

"Amateur acting?" I repeated, raising both brows up as I leaned back in my chair, my leg aching. "I can assure you, if I had been acting, I would have picked to play someone a little better suited for having a conversation with you."

"And what kind of person is that?"

"An arse."

"And what kind of person do you define yourself as, I wonder." Sherlock leaned forward a fraction more, shackles clinking as he forced his person outwards, exceeding what I saw as a comfortable position. "Do you think you're brave? Sitting with your back pressed against the wall and people watching from all around us? I bet you think you're fearless coming back to this place to talk to a dead memory and confront whatever idiotic part of you that still thinks you can save me so you might bring back your dear Sherlock. What a heroic thing you are, Watson, chasing shadows in the dark. Best watch where you step or you might just trip." His nostrils flared and he bared his teeth at me with every word. His piercing eyes widened to me, revealing the lack of empathy as expressed with his words.

I didn't realize I was gripping the arms of the chair until the sharp edges dug into my palms and made my flesh throb. I was caught under his gaze and I was fighting for control. Fear had instilled inside me and I began to feel as cold as his voice. I didn't know whether to start shouting or crying. All the composure had vanished when I listened to Sherlock stab me in the chest. It was the hardest thing to do, sit and listen as my best friend, a man who was once my best friend, snarl at me with venomous truths and what I so dearly hoped were pointless lies. A deranged look in his eyes convinced me had those bonds given way, Sherlock wouldn't have hesitated to slit my throat.

"_Compose yourself, Watson. I still have questions." _

Mycroft's voice was unusually comforting. The man's tone was still unsympathetic, but it woke me up from falling into despair, like a slap in the face. I roused from my momentary stupor, closing my eyes for a few seconds before I decided to lock eyes with the patient again.

"What have you got to say, Watson? What's in the script next?" His eyes were so eagerly waiting a response, I found myself biting my tongue just to seem any degree of defiant or unpredictable, but I could see that he had me cornered. Response or no response, Sherlock had put me in checkmate and was waiting to see what I'd do next. Move to the left, or to the right.

"_Ask him about Richard Brook. Do it."_

"Alright," I breathed out. I wasn't sure who my reply was directed to, but it seemed to suffice both as Mycroft did not bother to mutter in my ear and Sherlock seemed pleasantly surprised, smirking haughtily as he leaned back in his chair, red marks covering his wrists and bare ankles. "If you're really a fake, then, tell me about Richard Brook."

Sherlock's head threw itself back and a loud sigh of frustration emptied itself into the room and echoed for moments afterwards. "I've told you! How many times must I repeat myself!" Sherlock's hands fought against the restraints once again, writhing with aggravation. "Richard Brook was hired to play a villain! A mere tool to harbor all the blame on. A face to address your hatred and contempt. Was he _really _such a good actor? Can you _not _get that simple fact through your neanderthal skull?"

"I know who Richard Brook is. I was hoping you might focus more on why he was found dead on the rooftop. Forensics are claiming he shot himself," I swallowed.

Sherlock drew another breath and a dramatic sigh followed. He sat upright once again, looking at me with a tilted countenance. "Why does that surprise you? He was an actor who was hated for playing his part-no, famed for playing it. And I decided to stop the magic act and he fell apart. He didn't see how he could be successful after labeling himself as "James Moriarty." I was his only employer and he didn't see how things could go on if I decided to end things once and for all. I told him it was over on that rooftop, and he killed himself."

"He offed himself. Just like that?"

"Yes."

I looked at the man with and unconvinced stare. I crossed my arms over my jumper and windbreaker. "Sherlock, even I could come up with a lie better than-"

"Anyone could, John. I'm simply stating the truth. I'm sorry if you don't like it, but unless you'd like me to give a skewed version of what really happened then you'll just have to believe what I say. I'm the only witness of what happened. Even if I am lying, you'd never be able to prove it or truly convince yourself that I am not."

A flush of anger rose within me, but I said nothing and let silence reign for a few more seconds. "So, you're telling men Richard Brook was so unstable, he was prepared to end his life at a moment's notice?"

"I chose Richard Brook specifically because he was not mentally regular. To play a madman, one has to be mad in one way or another. Richard Brooks was a desperate man, ready to please in any way he could, much like yourself."

I bit down on the inside of my mouth until I tasted blood.

"He was a failing actor, and I brought him to fame, something an actor longs for. An illustrious career, even if it was playing a hated villain. His mental condition only worsened the more he played his part, regurgitating script I wrote for him but believing in his character nonetheless. It wasn't just a role for him in the end. He _needed _Moriarty. It was his success, his symbol of accomplishment. And when I threatened to take it all away, well… he couldn't live with it."

"That doesn't bother you."

"What doesn't bother me?"

"That you drove a man to kill himself? That doesn't bother you at all?" I asked the questions, even if I didn't believe a word he said. Listening to Sherlock reason the cloudy events of that day was infectious. I wanted nothing more to believe that Sherlock never existed and that this man before me was the person I had associated myself with for the past two years. I wanted nothing more than to throw the idea of Sherlock's existence away and out of my life, but I couldn't. I agonized over the chance that there might be some hidden truth somewhere that would make any sense and bring back the life I had.

"No."

"No?" I shook my head. "No?"

"Are you having a stroke, Watson? I said no."

I felt myself lapsing in and out of focus and I knew I was losing my grip on control.

"And… you jumped. You called me, confessed, and jumped," I was on the edge of my seat, my eyes searching every curve and wrinkle in his face. He couldn't be serious. He wasn't telling the truth, he couldn't be. "Why did you bloody jump, Sherlock?"

Sherlock groaned. He muttered something.

"Sorry...what?" It had been said so quietly.

"Bored."

I gazed at him, completely flummoxed.

"Bored!" Sherlock's voice boomed, his baritone conquering the sounds of shattering plates and pounding fists. "BORED!"

He repeated the word ceaselessly, screaming his bloody head off. I didn't know when I had moved, but I had. I found my back pressed against the walls of mirrors, the chair tipped over and my heart beginning to drum in my chest, steadily growing faster and louder.

"_Calm down, doctor!" _

I could hear sounds from behind the walls and I knew they were coming to take Sherlock away. A sudden wave of desperation came over me and I found myself rushing towards the distressed man.

"Sherlock!"

"BORED!"

"Sherlock, stop it!"

The man looked straight into my eyes and bellowed the word, spittle flying off his lips and the queasy smell of sweat and clamminess turning sour in my nose. His head shook with every howl, his shoulders braced and his hands balled into fists.

"Sherlock…" the word ended off with a weakness I couldn't deny was there. I was looking at a madman. Sherlock was mad. Completely, utterly, horrifyingly mad.

"_Dammit, get away from him, Watson!"_

I felt my entire body freeze in place, Sherlock's body was pulling with all his might against what held him down and his face had turned blotchy and red.

"BORED!" He screamed.

"Sherlock, shut up!" My hands were on his shoulders, trying to calm him down, his head thrashed side to side, his entire body beneath my fingers shaking and convulsing. I felt sick to my stomach and refused to breathe in fear I would just let everything go.

"Step away from the patient, Doctor Watson!" The voice shouted from the hall, the sounds of boots hitting the ground running surrounding us. The doors swung open and guards began to flood in.

"Sherlock!" I put my hands on either side of the man's face and forced him to look at me. The whites of his eyes were crossed with popped veins and the irises quivered with the frailty I felt in the pit of my stomach. "Sherlock, please!" I held his head firm in my grip, the touch of his unshaven face scratchy and unpleasant and the perspiration forming on his brow made my hands damp.

"Doctor Watson!" I felt hands grabbing my shoulders and my instincts took over. I fought against them, chills running down my spine as the memory began to come back to me.

My eyes fixed on Sherlock's. I could feel the muscles of his jaw ripple beneath my fingers. His lips were chapped and broken but he uttered in a guttural, scratchy voice: "Just let me die."

I gasped for breath, not realizing I had been avoiding the air from reaching my lungs until my head swam with confusion and shock. The bandage that had been wrapped around Sherlock's head had become loosed from all his frantic shaking and a stream of blood streaked down the side of his face and onto my trembling hands. I could see clearly that the sutures had torn and the wound had reopened. Scarlet met with scarlet, small streams forming large rivers to empty out to sea.

"Sherlock…" I breathed.

My hands were wrenched from his face, they were coated in his blood.

"Sherlock!" I panicked. I began to push and pull, trying to get to my friend. "You don't understand! He's my friend!" A jolt of pain shot up my leg and I fell to the ground. I was out in the hallway. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Sherlock's bleeding form. He had passed out. The door closed.

"SHERLOCK!" I screamed. The words tore through my larynx and it hurt. It hurt so much.

"It's okay. Release him." Mycroft's suited form appeared in front of me and I could feel myself sink to the floor as the hands holding me up let me go. I could not see anything but blood. His blood. I felt the warmth and stickiness on my palms, trickling down my fingers.

"Watson. Watson, look at me!" His voice had raised and I looked at him, trying not to picture the crimson running down his face…

Mycroft sighed and stood up, he looked somewhere above me and gave a curt nod.

I did not move my gaze. I was seeing it all over again. Sherlock's body. Smashed and crumpled on the ground. The dark blood flooding out of his head and trickling in the cracks of the cobblestone.

I felt someone grab my arm and I imagined myself being pulled away from my friend. I tried to wrench it out of the stranger's grip. I felt a pinch in the crook of my arm, and the images began to fade in to black.

"_I'm not impressed, Doctor Watson. Not in the slightest."_

Then they became more vivid than ever.


End file.
